Parts of Perfect
by DaeDreemer
Summary: “Do you ever think about what’d it be like if we’d gotten married?” Set in an indeterminate future.


**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Gossip Girl."

**Author's Notes**: Random angst...

Thank you for reading. :-)

* * *

"Do you ever think about what'd it be like if _we'd _gotten married?"

The cup nearly slipped from Nate's hands; he fumbled to catch it before the liquid spilled over the gray cement floor. "Wha—what?" He shook his head even as he stuttered the word. "No, no… why would you—?"And he blew out a breath, didn't finish his question, just answered hers, "No, Blair."

She turned to look at him, expression almost hazily amused, brown eyes heavy, unfocused. "Is it really so shocking?" There's a shrug with the question, a distant look in her eyes, "It could have been… us, don't you think? Me and you…?" The vestiges of amusement list away and she's sad and scared and too weary to hide any of it, all over again; like he is, like _they've _been for almost a full day now—no sleep, no answers, just this… waiting.

Nate shakes his head again, brings the coffee to his lips and takes a gulp. It's hot and he's glad—wants it to scald his throat. "You should go home, get some sleep. I'll call you, if there's any change." He says the words slowly, carefully; she'd slapped him on the chest, the head, the face, hit his shoulders, pushed him back, screamed herself hoarse last time he'd suggested it (_Why would you think I'd do that?! How could you!? I'll be here as long as you are?! As long as they aren't!), _but that had been six hours ago and he knew she'd lost the energy for that much fire.

"I had the names of our children picked out, you know."

"Blair, stop."

But Blair didn't stop. Her gaze on the floor, she continued to speak, "_Grace_ for a girl."

And Nate felt his grip on the cup tighten; his vision gray out a little, "Don't do this now," he warned. _Ever, _his mind added.

"_Nathaniel_ for a boy, of course," she whispered; soft like the edges of the dream they'd once been.

"_Blair." _

"We would have had a spring wedding."

He hurled the coffee against the floor; _anything _to get her to be silent, "_Stop _it!" He shouted it, the cup splattering black liquid and folding in on itself at the force of his throw.

There was no one else in the waiting room; it was private, theirs. But people rushed in now, asking what was happening, if everything was alright and Nate gaped at them (_no everything is not fucking alright! Get someone in here to clean this up! And to tell us where the hell our spouses are!?); _not his finest moment, but his wife and his best friend had been missing for over nine hours and his patience was stretched thin.

Blair stared at the floor, watched the puddle of dark liquid spread and wondered when Nate had started drinking coffee black… when Nate had started drinking coffee… when, when, when…

::

The plane went down on a Sunday evening; on its way back from Paris.  
And Blair thought it would be pretty ironic if Paris stole yet more of her family.

::

"I think we would have been okay."

"Blair, _please_." His voice low hoarse, it _hurt, _there was the scratch of sandpaper whenever he blinked and a tremor to his hands, his arms, unless he remained perfectly, impossibly, coiled. "_Don't." _

"Maybe not happy, exactly," she continued, an automaton with a voice of silk; she was shredding them both into slivers, "But we would have been… perfect."

"We're not— what is _wrong _with you?!" He shouted it, didn't mean to; not now. He didn't mean to attack her now, but the words spilled out, "Does your goddamn fairytale mean this fuckin' much to you, Blair!? That you need to recreate it _now!" _

"We would have gone to the Hampton's every summer."

"I would have _hated _you."

"Me too," she agreed without hesitation, "But we would have been perfect."

There was spike of pain in his chest, arms, legs, head – _heart. _"_Stop _it," he whispered through clenched teeth.

"Two children and a townhouse and— _perfect._" There were tears choking her voice and Nate felt them building in his chest, swiveled towards her and grabbed her face with one hand almost viciously, his fingers digging into her cheeks.

"That's a _lie." _He spat the words out and she stared at him blankly, didn't pull away, just watched him.

_It's a lie, _he repeated to himself.

Nate knew perfect.

She did too.

He can see it in her brown tear-filled eyes, feel it in his chest as easily as her hot tears spill over his fingers, can _hear _it in his mind – _perfect__…_ it's Sunday morning brunch in front of a too-small table loaded with every favorite breakfast food (croissants and sausages and Pop-Tarts and strawberries and French toast and syrup and grape jelly and orange juice and apple juice and coffee); it's two couples out to the opera, one giggly, but bored, the other amused, but disapproving; it's two pairs of blue eyes – _let's go bowling _and twin dark stares filled with horror; it's held hands and teasing looks, impulsive hugs and sweet kisses, it's an oft seen movie and reciting lines before they appear… its best friends and sweethearts and a world, that together, they could bend to their will…

He dropped his hand from her face. She stared back at him; cheeks wet now, breath hitching in her chest as it rose and fell in soundless sobs.

(it's been so long, so much water)

There was a wildness inside him then, pumping in his blood, a savagery he thought could destroy the entire room (him, Blair, them, _)_. He thought he could walk it off, jumped from his seat and paced the room, but every step only had it mounting, every breath only got more ragged, more _impossible—_this was _impossible—_ it _couldn't _be happening (he was going to wake up with Serena's head tucked under his chin and her leg wrapped around his hip, Blair would call for shopping with _S _and he would make Chuck come over to watch a game)…

His fist ends up against the wall – once, twice, three times, once more…

And then there's, _"Nate__…__ Nate! NATE!" _echoing in his head; he couldn't breathe and Blair was pulling at his arm, heartbroken and terrified and just as savage, _"Don't you DARE break your hand!" _ She shouted, breathless too, and he jerked back hard, away from her, stared at her with wide, tear-filled blue eyes.

There're no words (no news – just waiting for the search party to do their job), just the two of them. And, "We're…" his tears felt hot on his face and he breathed, "_Not__…__" _ They weren't. Not alone. The two of them could never be anything but _parts _of perfect_. _Never it whole. Never alone.

His hand in hers then and he couldn't look down, anywhere but at her—

They were on the floor then, knees on cold cement, his hand still in hers. He stared at her looking at it; let it rest immobile in her hold even when she pressed hard into the bloody scrapes with her fingertips. "Does it hurt…?" Her voice was low, raw, vicious (broken, terrified, tiny).

It seeped out of him as abruptly as it had appeared and his head sank down, a shudder going through him (this can't be real, it _can't_), "No."

He gripped her forearm then, head sinking lower; she pressed harder into the bleeding skin, nails digging into tender flesh as she lowered her forehead to rest against his chest, his grip tightened on her arm (she'd bruise, he thought faintly) and then he let his head fall to her shoulder.

And they tried to breathe.

::

There was nothing more they could do; they were doing everything that could be done. It wasn't a matter of money or resources; it was a matter of time and weather.

A billion dollars can't change a weather pattern.

::


End file.
